Once Upon a Time: A WCPL Side Story
by AGirlNamedEd
Summary: Gohan is ten years old when Goku and Piccolo decide it's time to come clean to him about their shared past. It is fun for exactly none of them. (Side story to West City Public Library.)


**So this is a side story for my ongoing story West City Public Library. Long story short: all-human real-world public library AU. (It's...less weird than it sounds, trust me.) I decided not to include it in the regular fic because in the regular fic Gohan is 6, so it would mess with timeline stuff. I'm dying because Goku and Piccolo's relationship is almost as important to me as Gohan and Piccolo's relationship and I HAVE WRECKED IT AND IT HURTS ME**

 **westcitypubliclibrary on Tumblr is the official Tumblr for this AU!**

 **Thank you for reading; I hope you enjoy it! I'm always open to feedback if you have any.**

* * *

 **Summary:** Gohan is ten years old when Goku and Piccolo decide it's time to come clean to him about their shared past. It is fun for exactly none of them.

* * *

Gohan sat in the big armchair in his living room and watched his father and Piccolo fidget and pace. Goku had told Gohan that now that he was older, it was time to tell him something, and that Piccolo would be coming over that afternoon. He hadn't told Gohan what they needed to talk about, but Gohan was ten now, a big kid, and if it involved Piccolo then he could guess.

His age was actually what had prompted the talk, according to his mother. Chi-Chi disapproved of the whole thing, but, she told Gohan, when it came down to it, it wasn't her decision to make. Goku and Piccolo had apparently talked the situation over and decided that now was the time to have the discussion, now that Gohan was old enough to understand things better.

Gohan's gut twisted at the thought of what kinds of things he'd be hearing about today, especially since neither Goku nor Piccolo seemed eager to start the conversation. Instead Goku paced while Piccolo leaned against a wall, arms folded, both men staring at the floor. But he knew they wouldn't both agree about telling him about it if it wasn't important. So Gohan sat, and he waited.

"See, it's like this," Goku started after a bit. He stopped pacing, frowning at the floor. "Or maybe...no, shouldn't we - "

"Just start from the beginning," Piccolo growled.

"Why don't you do it then, if you're so good at it?" Goku shot back. Piccolo's scowl deepened and he looked away, retreating further into himself. "Sorry, that was rude." Goku sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "This is just stressful, you know?"

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," Gohan suggested.

Goku shook his head. "Nope, you've been asking about this for years now. We're having this talk." He took a deep breath. "Okay. The very beginning. Let's see."

* * *

Goku tapped his pencil against the page. This was _hard_. Getting his learner's permit shouldn't be _this_ difficult. Sure, the signs test had been a breeze (who didn't know what a stop sign meant?), but driving had so many _rules_ and how was one person supposed to remember all of them?

He glanced over his shoulder and saw his grandfather dozing in one of the chairs in the waiting area while he waited for Goku to finish. Grandpa really thought Goku could do this. And Chi-Chi had said she'd bake an entire batch of cookies _just for him_ if he passed. And Bulma would teach him to drive! There was a lot riding on Goku's test score.

His leg bounced under the table and he tried his best to concentrate. He'd studied this. He _knew_ this. He just had to remember it, and that was the problem.

Of course, the guy shouting at the people behind the front desk wasn't helping much, either.

"That can't be right!" He was huge, bald, and scowling, probably around Goku's age but about a foot taller. He'd been there for ten minutes. "I demand you check it again!"

To her credit, the woman behind the desk had done a wonderful job of keeping her composure so far. "Mr. Piccolo, if you want to come back another day and take the test again - "

"I refuse to believe I got as low a score as that!" Piccolo was absolutely adamant. Goku circled answer C and moved on to the fourth question. "Check again!"

"It's against our policy to do so. You got a score of zero. You're welcome to try again another time, but - "

In the middle of her sentence, Piccolo turned on his heel and stormed out, giving Goku a brief view of the Postboy shirt he was wearing. He snorted. "Postboy" hadn't been cool since the 90's, and he wasn't sure it was even cool then. And he'd gotten a score of zero on his test? What a loser.

As it turned out, Goku shouldn't have been so quick to judge.

* * *

"When I said 'start at the beginning,' I didn't mean our _high school driver's tests_!" Piccolo barked.

Goku shrugged. "What? It's where we first met, technically. What're you getting all embarrassed about?"

"Besides," Piccolo grumbled, "you left out the part where you got a score of zero too."

Gohan's eyebrows shot up. "Seriously, Dad?"

"That stop sign question was rigged!"

"Okay, none of that is actually all that important." Piccolo pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. "Goku, you're going to give me a headache. _I'll_ handle this."

* * *

"I still don't get what the hell you want to go through _more_ school for." Cymbal shook his head. "You're a real inconvenience, you know? Costin' us all money, can't drive so one of us has to take you everywhere, wantin' to be a goddamn _librarian_ of all the stupid things...couldn't just be a Demon like the rest of us, no, Junior has to be _special_."

"Shut up already." Piccolo leaned back in his seat, arms folded, and watched the world flash by out the car window. "I'm paying my tuition myself with _my own_ money, plus grants and loans. You don't put a cent towards my education and I'm not asking you to." He glanced at his oldest brother out of the corner of his eye. "And you know that driver's test was rigged."

"Sure it was." Cymbal's condescending tone was the opposite of subtle.

"You never gave Tambourine this much trouble when _he_ went to college."

"Tambourine could get himself there and he was only there for _one_ year, not _five_."

Piccolo snorted. "Yeah, and look what he did with his certificate. Sure is doing a lot of 'general arts and science' these days."

Cymbal said nothing and Piccolo assumed the conversation was mercifully over. Piccolo hated his brothers and they hated him, and the only reason he put up with them was because he had nowhere else to go. Not if he wanted to continue being able to afford school.

(Well, technically there was always Uncle Kami. But there was no way in _hell_ he was dealing with that old fucker and...whatever the fuck Mr. Popo was.)

"You seriously don't know, do you." Cymbal kept his eyes on the road while he talked. "You don't actually know anything."

"I know more than you," Piccolo shot back. "I know enough to keep out of trouble. Unlike the rest of you, _I've_ never been arrested."

Cymbal rolled his eyes. "Oh, wow, good for you, that's _such_ a high bar to get over, congratulations. That's not even what I'm talking about."

"Well what _are_ you talking about, then?"

"I'm talking about Dad! What he does! He doesn't actually run a goddamn business, you know!"

"Of course I know that!" Piccolo's scowl deepened. "I've known that since I was nine! It's not exactly hard to figure out!"

Cymbal glanced at him. "You know where the money comes from, then?"

Piccolo faltered. "Not lately." He used to know. Piccolo Sr. was a cat burglar, and a successful one. He'd trained all of his sons in the fine art of thievery, calling themselves the "Demon Clan." It was a play on their last name, Ma, meaning "demon" in Japanese. (According to Kami, their family name was originally his last name, Shen, and when Piccolo Senior abandoned their family he took the name Ma just to spite them. Knowing Piccolo's father, he wouldn't put it past him.) And while the three older boys were all more than eager to carry on the Ma "family business," Piccolo Jr. found it boring. He was good at it - naturally good, with relatively little training - and wanted to train in something that would give him more of a challenge. To that end, his father allowed him to continue on in school, however begrudgingly.

But more recently, Piccolo's family had been coming home with bigger and bigger hauls, more cash, more expensive things to sell. It definitely went beyond just plain old cat burglary, but since Piccolo was the odd man out, they never told him anything. "Shut up and take your share," they'd tell him. He always got the smallest cut, which they told him was only fair since he never went with them on "jobs." Sometimes Piccolo refused the money altogether. If they got caught and he was found with stolen money, it'd be harder to pretend he had nothing to do with it. (And knowing his brothers, they'd likely be all too happy to throw him under the bus with them.) But then he'd have tuition to pay, or his computer would break down, or he'd need emergency dentistry done (thankfully only once), and he'd swallow his pride and took what he could get.

His part-time work at the campus library only paid so well, after all.

"Then you don't know anything." Cymbal pulled over. "We're here. Get out."

Piccolo unbuckled his seatbelt and started to get out of the car. He looked over his shoulder at his oldest brother. "You're all going to get in deep shit one of these days," he said, "and then you'll see I was right." He slammed the door and Cymbal immediately sped off, and only then did Piccolo remember he'd left his class notes sitting on his desk at home.

* * *

"My turn," Goku piped up.

"I wasn't finished," Piccolo protested.

Goku shrugged. "Your story was boring. So now it's my turn."

* * *

Roshi squinted up at Goku. "You've been out doing your vigilante thing, haven't you?"

Goku fidgeted. "M-maybe?"

"Ten pushups."

"B-but - !"

"Don't argue or I'll get out the turtle shells!" Roshi pointed to the shells lining the walls of the dojo that the Turtle School of Martial Arts was named for. He had them organized by size, colour, and weight, and sometimes he'd make the older students wear them while training.

Grumbling, Goku got to the floor and started counting.

"Goku, Goku, Goku." Roshi sat crosslegged next to him and shook his head. "What am I gonna do with you, boy? How many times have I told you that that whole vigilante justice thing is just gonna get you in trouble?"

"So far the only trouble it's gotten me into is with you," Goku muttered.

"Ten more pushups."

"Hey!"

"You start working at a martial arts dojo and you think you're invincible! Untouchable!" Roshi shook his head again. "This isn't the Son Goku I know! It's not the boy my friend Gohan raised! One of these days you're going to get way in over your head, or anger someone you shouldn't, and then what?" Goku finished his pushups and sat up, facing Roshi. "You want to make sure bad people are given what they deserve. I understand. But you can't go around risking your life. You're only human, even if you're named for a monkey king."

"I know." Goku hung his head. "I'm sorry. I'll be more careful."

Roshi sighed and stood up. "I guess that's all I can ask for. Come on now, this morning's class won't teach itself."

"Yes sir!" Goku hauled himself to his feet. "By the way, Roshi, how did you know?"

"Eh? How's that?"

"You know. How did you know I'd been out doing 'vigilante stuff' again?"

Roshi lowered his sunglasses so Goku could see his eyes and winked. "I didn't. I guessed."

* * *

"Is this really relevant?"

"Shut up, Piccolo, I'm getting to it."

* * *

Goku hummed tunelessly to himself as he rode his bike home. It'd been a good day at the dojo, despite how it started. Most of the students were really improving, especially David. And with the Turtle School getting more and more requests from schools for someone to come out and teach after-school karate classes, Roshi was talking about giving Goku more work. More work meant less time to train for tournaments, which was what Goku was really into, but it also meant a bigger paycheck - and with Goku living on his own now, he'd take what he could get.

It was dark out, and Roshi had offered him a ride home, but Goku didn't mind riding his bike in the dark. He had a reflective vest and excellent night vision, and he'd never had a problem on a ride home before.

Unfortunately, luck always seemed to run out at the most inconvenient times.

A voice caught Goku's attention and he slowed. Really, it was probably nothing, but the fact that it was hushed and quiet, obviously not wanting to be heard, compelled him to think otherwise. He stopped his bike, listening intently and looking around. A flash of movement from the corner of his eye and Goku turned his head just in time to watch a leg disappear through an apartment window three floors off the ground.

He froze. What did he do? He was pretty sure he'd just witnessed a break and enter. But then again, it might've been the apartment resident who'd forgotten their keys. But it was a rich neighborhood, and there had been an increasing number of murder-robberies in this part of town lately. Goku fumbled in his bike basket for his phone. The light in the apartment still hadn't come on, and he was uneasier and uneasier. The whole situation twisted his gut.

Carefully leaning his bike against a wall, Goku slipped up the fire escape towards the window. He told himself he'd just check to make sure everything was okay. If it turned out that it really _was_ the person who lived there, he'd apologise and explain. If it wasn't...well, he had his phone.

He peeked in the still-open window. There were several people moving around in there and -

Goku's heart stopped. It was difficult to see in the darkness, but it looked like there were two people lying on the ground.

They didn't seem to be moving.

He drew back from the window and tried to force himself to breathe. Phone, he had to use his phone, he had to call the cops, he couldn't deal with this by himself.

 _Beep._

Goku froze, heart pounding. That one button press was so _loud_. There was no way one of the guys inside hadn't heard it. His thumb hovered over the dial pad, waiting.

Nothing.

He stood to move _away_ and call the police from somewhere safer _like he should have in the first place_ and found himself face to face with one of the burglars.

Goku shrieked and punched him in the face.

All hell broke loose. Roshi's words echoed in Goku's head as he punched and kicked and threw and screamed: _one of these days you're going to get way in over your head._

Soon Goku was surrounded by four unconscious men and dialling frantically.

* * *

Gohan didn't realise he'd had his hands over his mouth until his father asked him if he was okay. "Were...were they dead?" he whispered.

Goku scratched his shoulder. "Yeah. Not gonna go into details, but it was pretty brutal. The cops said they died instantly, which is good I guess."

Piccolo stood from where he'd been seated against the wall. He was obviously trying not to look uncomfortable, but he wasn't doing a very good job. "You've had your turn." He dug his fingers into his arms. "Now it's mine."

"You sure?" Goku shoved his hands in his pockets and looked up at Piccolo. "This isn't gonna be fun for you."

Gohan wrung his hands as he looked up at his father and the librarian who had become so important to him. "Mr. Piccolo, it's okay, you don't have to - "

"Yes," Piccolo interrupted, "I do have to, don't you get it?" He sighed, rubbing his forehead. "I shouldn't have snapped. I'm sorry. But I do have to be the one to talk about this, because...well, it's my fault."

"It's not - " Goku started, but Piccolo talked right over him.

"It _is_ my fault, or at least mostly mine, and you know it." He hesitated, then awkwardly clasped Goku's shoulder. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, though."

"Anytime."

* * *

Gone. Everything was gone.

Piccolo sat dazedly in the middle of the floor of his father's empty apartment, feeling like the world had just fallen out from under him. Almost everything in the apartment had been taken by the police to be returned to their rightful owners, and Piccolo was sole heir to whatever was left. There wasn't much - a pitifully small cardboard box with a few old knickknacks and an overstuffed armchair.

But what was worse - so much worse - was his missing family.

The Demon Clan had moved on from burglary to armed robbery and then to murder-robbery. When the police questioned them, they said that sometimes they worked for people who'd pay them to kill someone and take their stuff, but mostly they just liked doing it. They refused to give up the names of any of their contractors, and to Piccolo's surprise none of them tried to drag him under with the rest of them. According to the cop who interviewed Piccolo, Drum even went so far as to say that "Junior didn't even know we'd moved up to armed robbery."

Piccolo had never gotten along with his brothers. He was always Junior to them, an annoying little brat who couldn't just shut up and go along with Dad, who had to be _different_ and _special_. And in return he didn't like them - they were assholes to him, so he responded in kind. He hadn't gotten on with his father much, either; nothing he did was ever good enough for him. "You're Piccolo Junior," he'd tell him, "you've got responsibilities to go with that name." Piccolo Junior, occupation: family disappointment.

But despite all that, despite all the times when Piccolo hated his family and wished he could've been born into literally any other one...he'd cried when he lost them.

He didn't go to watch when it happened. He couldn't. Instead he sat and stared at his phone, waiting for the call to tell him it was over. Uncle Kami went, he knew that. Whether it was one last potshot at Piccolo Senior or a last-ditch effort at reconciliation for his conscience's sake, Piccolo didn't know, and he didn't really care either.

The police didn't call him when it happened, Kami did. Maybe he'd thought that hearing the news from a familiar voice would help, but it didn't. It almost made things worse. He threw his phone at the wall and curled up in the old armchair, crying until he was spent. Maybe if he cried enough he wouldn't feel anything anymore.

His phone rang and he jumped. He'd totally forgotten about it, lying next to the wall. Miraculously, it was still intact. Piccolo didn't really want to talk to anyone right now, but he figured that if nothing else it would give him someone to shout at. So he dragged himself across the floor to it, picking it up and answering without looking at the caller ID. "What." His voice was raspy and cracked, and he couldn't put emotion into it if he tried. He finally understood what people meant when they said they were dead inside.

"Piccolo, please." It was Uncle Kami. "You can't stay in that apartment forever. Come over."

"Fuck off." Oh, that felt good.

"I know you're upset." For someone who had just witnessed four of his five remaining family members get murdered by the state, Kami sounded remarkably held together. "But being alone right now might not be the best thing for you - "

"I think _I_ know what's best for me more than you do." How dare he? Who the hell did Kami think he was? "So fuck off."

"Piccolo!" Kami snapped. "I know you, and I don't want you to do anything rash that you'll regret later. If you don't come over here, I'm going over there." Piccolo could hear Mr. Popo say something in the background. "No, I'm going. If I don't he'll do something stupid, like go after that Son boy - "

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Piccolo retorted. "What Son boy?"

There was silence on the other end. "Nobody."

"Uncle Kami." Piccolo gritted his teeth. He hated secrets - secrets were what had taken his family from him, after all. "I have a laptop. If you don't tell me I'll look him up myself and from the sounds of things you won't like that. What. Son. Boy."

He practically heard Kami deflate. "When your father and brothers were arrested, it was on the news. A young man about your age was the one who caught them."

A name and face flashed in Piccolo's memory - _Son Goku_. He'd heard it spoken by some of the police he'd dealt with over the last few months, seen him briefly at the station being interviewed. It was all _his_ fault.

"Piccolo." Kami's voice wavered. "Don't."

"You can't stop me." Piccolo hung up and turned his phone off. He didn't know what he was going to do with this information but he did know two things:

Son Goku had taken everything from him. And now he was going to pay for it.

* * *

There he was.

It hadn't taken much digging for Piccolo to figure out a few basic things about Goku. He was a bit of a local celebrity, having won some big world martial arts tournament at the age of 12. He was the same age as Piccolo. He had the stupidest hair Piccolo had ever seen. He worked at the Turtle School of Martial Arts in West City's downtown.

And he was just casually walking along the street in front of Piccolo.

Now was his chance. He'd originally planned on just roughing Goku up a little, giving him a few scrapes and bruises and moving on with his life. But now, actually seeing him, Piccolo realised he wanted him dead.

Goku turned down a side street and Piccolo followed, peering down the alley after him. There was no one else around. Now would be the perfect time, before Goku even knew he was -

"You can come out," Goku said, turning around, hands in his pockets. Piccolo quickly ducked back, heart pounding. There was no way Goku had seen him. How could he know he was following him? He must be talking to someone else.

"I know you're there." Goku didn't sound angry or upset - more amused than anything. "You wanna fight or something? Because I should warn you, I'm pretty good."

Nothing happened for a long moment. "Or did you wanna talk instead?" Goku suggested. Piccolo flinched - when had he moved beside him? Goku was looking straight up at him, gaze steady. "You've been following me for, like, three blocks. I'm not stupid. I was gonna notice sooner or later. So what's it gonna be? Fighting, or talking?" A look of realization came over him. "Uh, if you wanna ask me out, I should tell you that I'm spoken for as of yesterday afternoon."

Piccolo gagged. "Nothing of the sort!"

"Oh, good. That'd be awkward." Goku laughed.

What the hell was wrong with this man? He immediately assumed someone was looking to fight him (which Piccolo was, but still, that wasn't a normal assumption), laughed at his own jokes, carried himself in such an...odd manner. He was completely casual and yet there was no doubt in Piccolo's mind that if he tried to hit him he wouldn't be able to.

No harm in trying.

As expected, Goku caught his fist easily. "So that's how it's going to be."

They fought in the alley in the fading daylight, and Piccolo had to admit Goku was better than he'd thought. But he also fought with the attitude of someone used to winning, so any time Piccolo managed to turn the tables on him he panicked. Piccolo got him around the legs and slammed him to the ground, clambering on top of him and grabbing his face, forcing his head backwards. "You're the reason my father is dead," he growled, "and now you're going to die for it."

Goku's fingers lashed out, jabbing Piccolo in the eyes, and he reeled back, howling and rubbing at them. "You're one of the Demon Clan! I thought you looked familiar!" Goku tackled him before he could get his concentration back, shoving him against a wall. "You must be the one they said wasn't involved." Piccolo slammed his head forward, seeing stars when it connected with Goku's. Goku fell backwards, clutching his head. "What the hell, man! Your family was killing people! What was I supposed to do, ignore it? My best friend lived around there - what if it'd been him next?!"

Piccolo punched him in the face over and over, punctuating each swing with a shout. "MY - FAMILY - IS - DEAD!"

A hand caught his and he was forced back again. "AND I'M SORRY ABOUT THAT!" Goku bellowed, slamming a fist into Piccolo's gut. "BUT THEY SHOULDN'T HAVE BEEN KILLING PEOPLE!"

With the air forced out of him, all Piccolo could do was wheeze on the ground. Goku stood over him, panting, blood running down his face from a head wound, clothes ripped and torn, an impressive scratch on his chest that would probably end up scarring. He wiped blood from under his nose and wiped his hand on his pants. "Look," he said, chest heaving as he tried to get his breath back. "This whole thing is shit. I get that. But I'm not sorry I did what I did. Your family was killing people, dude. You don't have to be like them. You can be better than that."

Piccolo spat at him. "Fuck you. You think you can tell me what to do?"

"No, I don't! I'm just saying, this whole vengeance thing for family that didn't even talk about you at their fucking interviews? I'm the guy who brought them in, and I only barely knew you existed! That's how much they didn't talk about you! There wasn't even anything in the news - I only knew you were around because I _asked_!" Piccolo struggled to his feet and Goku didn't try to stop him. "Go home, man. You're better than this - than _them_. They don't deserve your revenge."

There was nothing in the world Piccolo wanted more than to pound Goku's face into the pavement, but he knew when he was beat. And he also knew Goku wasn't wrong. He wobbled and pointed at Goku. "You and I aren't done here. I'll see you again, and when I do, I'll fucking kill you."

Goku's mouth tipped up in a tired, broken smile. "You're welcome to try. But you're not your dad. And you're not going to kill anyone."

"We'll see about that," Piccolo muttered as he stumbled away.

* * *

Gohan was going to be sick. Piccolo stood in the middle of the room, arms folded, back hunched, shoulders up, waiting to be judged. Goku hovered between them, waiting to see who was going to need his support first.

"Wh...what happened then?" Gohan asked.

Piccolo shrugged, staring at the carpet. "Nothing. I went back to college, started working at the public library. I was just - when I fought your dad, I was angry, and I'd just lost almost everything I cared about. Time and...distance, I guess, helped with that." He dug a toe into the carpet. "I still hated him for what he did to me, but - hey, at least I didn't want him dead anymore." He gave Gohan a weak smile. "That's got to count for something."

Goku's hand landed on Gohan's shoulder. "Are you okay, Gohan?" he asked. "I know that's a lot to take in." He looked at Piccolo. "Maybe we should've waited longer - like, until he was fifteen or something. Ten seems kind of young now."

"No," Gohan protested, "I'll be okay. I'm just..." He trailed off. "I don't know." He looked up at Piccolo. "Mr. Piccolo, do you still hate my dad?"

"No." The response was immediate and final. "I respect him; I dislike him sometimes, but I don't hate him. Haven't for years."

Gohan slid off the chair and hugged his dad. "Thanks for telling me."

Goku knelt to give Gohan a proper hug. "Are you sure you're okay? You seem pretty shaken."

"I'll be okay."

"But are you okay _now_?"

Gohan shrugged, clutching Goku's shoulders a little tighter. "I don't know."

"That means no." He patted Gohan's back, then released him. "Why don't you go see Mom? She'll make you some hot milk or something and maybe you'll feel a little better."

"Okay." Gohan stepped back, then looked up at Piccolo. He still looked like he was trying to disappear into himself, not meeting anyone's eyes and looking just as nauseous as Gohan felt. "Mr. Piccolo?"

Piccolo didn't move for a moment. Then he slowly dragged his gaze up to Gohan's. "What?"

Gohan walked to him, then wrapped his arms around Piccolo's waist. He felt Piccolo flinch away from him before his hands rested on Gohan's shoulders. "Thanks for telling me."

Piccolo cleared his throat. "Well, you're the one who kept asking," he said gruffly. "It was going to come out sooner or later."

"But you didn't have to ever tell me, and you did. So thanks."

"Whatever," Piccolo muttered, but it was clear he was touched. "Go see your mom, kid."

As Gohan left the room, he heard Piccolo say something and Goku laugh.


End file.
